Pot Was Not My Motivation, Mom, by Susannah Hall

Pot Was Not My Motivation, Mom -- McCrimmon Award Runner-up -- (Susannah Hall)

One look at my high school transcripts and most would draw the conclusion that I am “science challenged.” No matter how interesting I found the subject, I simply did not possess the discipline to sit down and memorize chemical equations, and I found little outside motivation in my parents, who assured me that learning was more important than test scores. Nonetheless, science proved to be a persistent challenge, as my otherwise solid grade point average dropped a few tenths of a point with every lab or semester exam. Ultimately, high school science left me jaded, but my outlook started to change with the last assignment of the year.

Something about science has always made me feel the need to work no harder than is absolutely necessary. Perhaps it is the notion that you are always repeating someone else’s steps, and originality is hard to come by in a second grade science fair project. A lot of people argue this for mathematics, but I personally felt like I was learning things I would use in real life: for instance, calculating tax on my groceries before reaching the checkout, or finding the correct ratio for chlorine in my pool. Would I ever debate on where to put my potted plants: window versus closet? I doubt it. Biology made little sense to me, as I always felt how we were made held less importance than why we were put here and what we could do, and Chemistry really just confused me. During junior year with decisions about college around the corner, I knew I needed to put my preferences behind me and face the upcoming semesters with as much optimism as I could muster.

***

Junior year means one thing at James S. Rickards High School: students must make the pseudo-decision between Higher Level Chemistry and Standard Level Environmental Systems. I say fake choice because everyone knows the science-inclined kids are heavily persuaded to take Chemistry and the future English majors of America are herded towards “Enviro,” and there’s no debating it with the counselors. Let’s just say I didn’t feel the need to argue. I’d heard assignments in Enviro were something akin to “Keep this fish alive for the entire semester” and “Dig a hole to see if the soil changes with depth.” In a word, boring—but the government felt that restrictions should be put on anything involving chemical reactions, cross-breeding plant species, studies of toxic lakes, and other dangerous, fun-sounding activities. I’m sure this was running through my teacher’s head as she printed out an assignment stating, “Grow a plant in two different, controlled environments and make hypotheses about growth and germination rates,” assuming everyone would alter a simple factor such as sunlight or amount of water. While I was still determined to keep the promise I’d made to myself, my muse appeared to have taken a vacation.

The week before my project topic was due, we found out that my mom had cancer. Over the next few days I found myself replaying memories in my head, and then trying to imagine them without her. At age six, I play in the backyard as Mama weeds her garden. At eight, I tell my mom I want to buy the red and white striped petunias that look like peppermints. Mimicking my mother around age ten I start drinking herbal tea, and we decide to grow fresh mint on the front porch. Before I turn 13 we take a school trip to Disney’s Epcot and become fascinated with the hydroponic gardens exhibit. After that I hit the awkward middle school phase pretty hard and decide that the edgy punk kids could be my best friends, and maybe my mother shouldn’t be. By high school I’d mellowed out and stopped wearing eyeliner, but there were distinct undertones of depression that I couldn’t shake off.

I thought about what was missing from my life and decided it might be that maternal love and influence. I couldn’t for the life of me remember why I’d suddenly felt the need to be so independent. Why didn’t we garden anymore? Right then and there, I decided to take on the most ambitious project of the class. I would research, build, and conduct my experiment on hydroponic gardens, starting from scratch and knowing nothing, in hopes of reconnecting with my mother. At least that way she could relive some memories with me. Getting this approved by my teacher proved to be a little more difficult than I’d imagined because of the large scale of the idea. I rationalized that the only materials I’d come in contact with would be vermiculite, water, plant seeds, an aquarium pump and a Rubbermaid container. While the last two set me apart from my classmates, I pointed out that they were completely harmless-- a claim to which she couldn’t disagree. I threw myself into building the system so I wouldn’t worry so much about my mom. Initially I kept my plans clandestine, hoping to cheer up my mom with a big unveiling of the finished product. I was a little disappointed by her initial reaction.

Exhausted from hauling gallons of water from the kitchen to the porch to fill up my garden, I gestured to my mom to come outside and take a look. Silence. I waited for her smile, I waited for her laugh, I waited for her happiness. Bracing the doorframe with one hand and smoothing out the wrinkles of her nightgown with the other, I’d never seen my mother look so defeated. “Did you come up with this for your project so you could use it to grow pot afterwards? I’ve seen them in those rap videos.” I blinked. I knew she’d been worried about my reclusive behavior for some time now, but I had to laugh at the notion of her thinking I was a full-blown pothead. After assuring her that my motivations were not illicit, she cracked a smile and regained the glow that she’d been missing lately.

Weeks passed and I tended to my plants like they were my own children, covering them with blankets when the weather dipped below freezing and monitoring their progress each afternoon. It seemed as if I drove my mom to the doctor’s office every ten days—using my time in the waiting rooms to write my lab report. Once my final draft was handed in, I focused on spending time with my mom and helping her heal. While I’m usually happy to throw out the potted plants after the prescribed time period, we decided to keep cultivating my hydroponic Alaskan Peas, which flourished and found their way into our salads and side dishes. A few months later my mom was allowed to return to work, and I was somewhat afraid that our times together would become less frequent. Luckily, she felt the same way and we worked out a schedule to set aside time for one another and our garden. I guess we just couldn’t let it die.

***

As the year came to an end, things fell into place. My science teacher was so impressed with my lab report that she dropped my lowest test score and counted the experiment grade twice. My parents were proud of the 4.0 this earned me, and I was happy to learn some things about myself. I had been so focused on becoming independent that I’d lost one of the defining features of my life: loyalty. My actions in the face of fear taught me that I am stronger than I know, but a lot of that strength comes from my supportive family. In a sense, the hydroponic garden resembles me. Standing on its own, the garden looks self-sufficient. Delve a little deeper and you see it needs its water changed every two weeks. Another source provides it with oxygen which it can’t produce on its own. The vines are strong, but require a stake to stay standing in the face of wind and weather. Essentially, this experience let me know my own strengths and weaknesses, and continually reminds me to value every day as it comes.

Assignment

Paper 1—Personal Narrative – 3-5 pages

For this paper, I'm asking you to tell me a story about what shaped who you are today. For example, you might write a paper that discusses your experiences with your high school English classes and what you felt you learned (or didn't learn). Or, you might trace a theme in works you've liked and what that says about you, perhaps even going back to the first book you remember reading. A third possibility is to write about your struggle with English, including learning the language or overcoming a learning disability or finding yourself unable to remember all those grammar rules. Other examples include writing about your family (its history, its rituals, what stories your photo albums tell), your food preferences, your favorite sports, and your friends—so long as these things actively shaped who you are. Keep in mind these are just examples, though. You can (and should) choose a topic that interests you. Also remember that our likes and dislikes very often change. The books and movies and songs I liked ten years ago don't always hold up today. Considering why we look at these things differently is a great way to find a subject for your paper. The only restriction I will give is that this paper needs to be analytic in nature. It's fine for you to relate your experiences, but I want you also to be able to interpret those events in your life to see how they have contributed to who you are. You need to ask the question, "Why is this important?" repeatedly and try to find an answer.

Draft 1

One look at my high school transcripts and most would draw the conclusion that I am “science challenged”. My grade point average was habitually lowered by disappointments in the subject, which I usually passed off as teacher’s bias. No matter how interesting I found the material, studying proved to be the last thing on my mind at the end of the day. My parents have never been the type to put value on letter grades as long as I felt I learned something, but even my mother was surprised by my lack of effort in class. High school left me jaded. Everything changed with the last assignment of the year.

Something about science has always made me feel the need to work no harder than is absolutely necessary. Perhaps it is the feeling that you are always repeating someone else’s steps and originality is hard to come by in a second grade science fair project. A lot of people argue this for mathematics, but I personally felt like I was learning things I would use in real life, for instance, calculating tax on my groceries before reaching the checkout, or finding the correct ratio for chlorine in my pool. Would I ever debate on where to put my potted plants- window versus closet? I doubt it. Biology made little sense to me, as I always felt how we were made held less importance than why we were put here and what we could do, and Chemistry really just confused me. Somehow, my least favorite teacher managed to propose a project that excited the dormant scientist in me, changing not only my lifestyle, but also the relationship between my mother and me forever.

Junior year means one thing at James S. Rickards High School- students must make the pseudo-decision between Higher Level Chemistry and Standard Level Environmental Systems. I say fake choice because everyone knows the science-inclined kids are heavily persuaded to take Chemistry and the future English majors of America are herded towards “Enviro”, and there’s no debating it with the counselors. Let’s just say I didn’t feel the need to argue. I’d heard assignments in Enviro were something akin to “Keep this fish alive for the entire semester” and “Dig a hole to see if the soil changes with depth”. As with all things that interest a teenager, the government felt that restrictions should be put on anything involving chemical reactions, cross-breeding a plant species, studies of toxic lakes and other dangerous and fun sounding activities. I’m sure this was running through my teacher’s head as she printed out an assignment stating “Grow a plant in two different, controlled environments and make hypotheses about growth and germination rates”, assuming everyone would alter a simple factor such as sunlight or amount of water. I almost followed the pattern, but some shocking family news changed my mind.

I am twelve, my hideous red school shirt sticking to my body as I trudge through the ocean of tourists as EPCOT amusement park in Orlando, Florida, wishing I were anywhere but the “House of Mouse”. My middle school thought the trip would be fun, but educational too, so they supplied us with problems concerning velocity of roller coasters and habits of animals that we would complete over the long weekend at the various parks. EPCOT was full of innovation, things we would be using as adults, they assured us. My mother came along and was fascinated by the Segway. I was interested in the benches. The last stop of the day was the behind the scenes tour of EPCOT’s gardens, which provided vegetables for the restaurants. I expected to stand in the hot sun and view a large expanse of dirt sowed with tomatoes and cucumbers, but surprisingly, soil was completely absent from the equation. Instead we were lead into a cool, white room filled with suspended hydroponic gardens, roots swaying from the gentle breeze of fans, extending several feet towards the ground. The tour guide confidently stated that similar setups would find their way into homes across the world soon. Extremely low-maintenance and practical for areas with infertile soil as they can be used with variety of readily available substances made hydroponics a probable choice for farmers in remote areas of bad soil. I looked at my mother- we’d always enjoyed gardening together, but lately we’d gotten distracted by life.

The week before my project topic was due (I’d chosen to alter the salinity of the water I’d administer to the plants), we found out that my mom had cancer. Over the next few days I found myself replaying memories in my head, and then trying to imagine them without her. She brought so much goodness to every moment and I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember why I’d suddenly felt the need to be so independent. Why didn’t we garden anymore? Right then and there, I decided to take on the most ambitious project of the class. I would research, build and conduct my experiment on hydroponic gardens, starting from scratch and knowing nothing, in hopes of reconnecting with my mother. Passing this idea by my teacher proved to be a little more difficult than I’d imagined. In the end, I rationalized that the only materials I’d come in contact with would be vermiculite, water, plant seeds (same as everyone else), an aquarium pump and a Rubbermaid container, the last two being slightly out of the ordinary but completely harmless, to which she couldn’t disagree. I threw myself into building the system so I wouldn’t worry so much about my mom. I kept it a secret at first, in hopes of surprising and cheering her up. Needless to say, I was a little disappointed by her initial reaction.

Exhausted from hauling gallons of water back and forth to fill up my garden, I gestured to my mom to come outside and take a look. Silence. “Did you come up with this for your project so you could use it to grow pot afterwards?” I knew she’d been worried about my reclusive behavior for some time now, but I had to laugh at the notion of her thinking I was a full-blown pothead. After assuring her that my inspiration came from our one time hobby, she allowed herself to get excited and forget about the cancer momentarily.

Weeks passed and I tended to my plants like they were my own children, covering them with blankets when it dipped below freezing and monitoring their progress each afternoon. The day of my mom’s surgery I took off from school and typed my lab report in the hospital waiting room. After emailing said report to my teacher, I focused on spending time with my mom and helping her heal. While I’m usually happy to throw out the potted plants after the prescribed time period, we decided to keep cultivating my hydroponic Alaskan Peas, which flourished and found their way into our salads and side dishes. A few months later my mom was allowed to return to work, and I was somewhat afraid that our times together would become less frequent. Luckily, she felt the same way and we worked out a schedule to set aside time for one another and our garden. I guess we just couldn’t let it die.

As the year came to an end, things fell into place. My science teacher was so impressed with my lab report that she dropped my lowest test score and counted the experiment grade twice. My parents were proud of the 4.0 this earned me, and I was happy to learn some things about myself. I was so focused on being independent that I pushed out one of the defining features of my life- loyalty. My actions in the face of fear taught me that I am stronger than I know, but a lot of that strength comes from my supportive family. In a sense, the hydroponic garden resembles me. Standing on its own, the garden looks self-sufficient. Delve a little deeper and you see it needs its water changed every two weeks. Another source provides it with oxygen which it can’t produce on its own. The vines are strong, but require a steak to stay standing in the face of wind and weather. Essentially, this experience let me know my own strengths and weaknesses, and reminds me to value every day as they come, because you never know when it could be your last.

Draft 2

Something about science has always made me feel the need to work no harder than is absolutely necessary. Perhaps it is the feeling that you are always repeating someone else’s steps and originality is hard to come by in a second grade science fair project. A lot of people argue this for mathematics, but I personally felt like I was learning things I would use in real life, for instance, calculating tax on my groceries before reaching the checkout, or finding the correct ratio for chlorine in my pool. Would I ever debate on where to put my potted plants- window versus closet? I doubt it. Biology made little sense to me, as I always felt how we were made held less importance than why we were put here and what we could do, and Chemistry really just confused me. With college applications around the corner, I knew I needed to put my preferences behind me and face my the upcoming year with as much optimism as I could muster.

Junior year means one thing at James S. Rickards High School- students must make the pseudo-decision between Higher Level Chemistry and Standard Level Environmental Systems. I say fake choice because everyone knows the science-inclined kids are heavily persuaded to take Chemistry and the future English majors of America are herded towards “Enviro”, and there’s no debating it with the counselors. Let’s just say I didn’t feel the need to argue. I’d heard assignments in Enviro were something akin to “Keep this fish alive for the entire semester” and “Dig a hole to see if the soil changes with depth”. As with all things that interest a teenager, the government felt that restrictions should be put on anything involving chemical reactions, cross-breeding a plant species, studies of toxic lakes and other dangerous and fun sounding activities. I’m sure this was running through my teacher’s head as she printed out an assignment stating “Grow a plant in two different, controlled environments and make hypotheses about growth and germination rates”, assuming everyone would alter a simple factor such as sunlight or amount of water. While I was still determined to keep the promise I’d made myself, my muse appeared to have taken a vacation.

The week before my project topic was due (I’d chosen to alter the salinity of the water I’d administer to the plants), we found out that my mom had cancer. Over the next few days I found myself replaying memories in my head, and then trying to imagine them without her. I am 6, I play in the backyard as Mama weeds her garden. Age 8, I tell my mom I want to buy the red and white striped pansies that look like peppermints. At 10, wanting to be like my mother, I start drinking tea and we decide to grow fresh mint on the front porch. Before I turn 13 we take a school trip to Disney’s Epcot and become fascinated with their exhibit of hydroponic gardens. After that I hit the awkward middle school phase pretty hard, and decide that the edgy punk kids could be my best friends, and maybe my mother shouldn’t be. By high school I’d mellowed out and stopped wearing eyeliner, but there were distinct undertones of depression that I couldn’t shake off.

I thought about what was missing from my life and decided it might be that maternal love and influence. I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember why I’d suddenly felt the need to be so independent. Why didn’t we garden anymore? Right then and there, I decided to take on the most ambitious project of the class. I would research, build and conduct my experiment on hydroponic gardens, starting from scratch and knowing nothing, in hopes of reconnecting with my mother. At least that way she could relive some memories with me. Passing this idea by my teacher proved to be a little more difficult than I’d imagined. In the end, I rationalized that the only materials I’d come in contact with would be vermiculite, water, plant seeds (same as everyone else), an aquarium pump and a Rubbermaid container, the last two being slightly out of the ordinary but completely harmless, to which she couldn’t disagree. I threw myself into building the system so I wouldn’t worry so much about my mom. I kept it a secret at first, in hopes of surprising and cheering her up. Needless to say, I was a little disappointed by her initial reaction.

As the year came to an end, things fell into place. My science teacher was so impressed with my lab report that she dropped my lowest test score and counted the experiment grade twice. My parents were proud of the 4.0 this earned me, and I was happy to learn some things about myself. I was so focused on being independent that I pushed out one of the defining features of my life- loyalty. My actions in the face of fear taught me that I am stronger than I know, but a lot of that strength comes from my supportive family. In a sense, the hydroponic garden resembles me. Standing on its own, the garden looks self-sufficient. Delve a little deeper and you see it needs its water changed every two weeks. Another source provides it with oxygen which it can’t produce on its own. The vines are strong, but require a steak to stay standing in the face of wind and weather. Essentially, this experience let me know my own strengths and weaknesses, and reminds me to value every day as they come, because you never know when it could be your last.

Draft 3

Something about science has always made me feel the need to work no harder than is absolutely necessary. Perhaps it is the feeling that you are always repeating someone else’s steps and originality is hard to come by in a second grade science fair project. A lot of people argue this for mathematics, but I personally felt like I was learning things I would use in real life, for instance, calculating tax on my groceries before reaching the checkout, or finding the correct ratio for chlorine in my pool. Would I ever debate on where to put my potted plants- window versus closet? I doubt it. Biology made little sense to me, as I always felt how we were made held less importance than why we were put here and what we could do, and Chemistry really just confused me. With college applications around the corner, I knew I needed to put my preferences behind me and face my the upcoming year with as much optimism as I could muster.

Junior year means one thing at James S. Rickards High School- students must make the pseudo-decision between Higher Level Chemistry and Standard Level Environmental Systems. I say fake choice because everyone knows the science-inclined kids are heavily persuaded to take Chemistry and the future English majors of America are herded towards “Enviro”, and there’s no debating it with the counselors. Let’s just say I didn’t feel the need to argue. I’d heard assignments in Enviro were something akin to “Keep this fish alive for the entire semester” and “Dig a hole to see if the soil changes with depth”. As with all things that interest a teenager, the government felt that restrictions should be put on anything involving chemical reactions, cross-breeding a plant species, studies of toxic lakes and other dangerous and fun sounding activities. I’m sure this was running through my teacher’s head as she printed out an assignment stating “Grow a plant in two different, controlled environments and make hypotheses about growth and germination rates”, assuming everyone would alter a simple factor such as sunlight or amount of water. While I was still determined to keep the promise I’d made myself, my muse appeared to have taken a vacation.

The week before my project topic was due (I’d chosen to alter the salinity of the water I’d administer to the plants), we found out that my mom had cancer. Over the next few days I found myself replaying memories in my head, and then trying to imagine them without her. I am 6, I play in the backyard as Mama weeds her garden. Age 8, I tell my mom I want to buy the red and white striped petunias that look like peppermints. At 10, wanting to be like my mother, I start drinking tea and we decide to grow fresh mint on the front porch. Before I turn 13 we take a school trip to Disney’s Epcot and become fascinated with their exhibit of hydroponic gardens. After that I hit the awkward middle school phase pretty hard, and decide that the edgy punk kids could be my best friends, and maybe my mother shouldn’t be. By high school I’d mellowed out and stopped wearing eyeliner, but there were distinct undertones of depression that I couldn’t shake off.

I thought about what was missing from my life and decided it might be that maternal love and influence. I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember why I’d suddenly felt the need to be so independent. Why didn’t we garden anymore? Right then and there, I decided to take on the most ambitious project of the class. I would research, build and conduct my experiment on hydroponic gardens, starting from scratch and knowing nothing, in hopes of reconnecting with my mother. At least that way she could relive some memories with me. Passing this idea by my teacher proved to be a little more difficult than I’d imagined. In the end, I rationalized that the only materials I’d come in contact with would be vermiculite, water, plant seeds (same as everyone else), an aquarium pump and a Rubbermaid container, the last two being slightly out of the ordinary but completely harmless, to which she couldn’t disagree. I threw myself into building the system so I wouldn’t worry so much about my mom. I kept it a secret at first, thinking that it could be a surprise to cheer her up. Needless to say, I was a little disappointed by her initial reaction.

Exhausted from hauling gallons of water back and forth to fill up my garden, I gestured to my mom to come outside and take a look. Silence. “Did you come up with this for your project so you could use it to grow pot afterwards? I’ve seen them in those rap videos.” I knew she’d been worried about my reclusive behavior for some time now, but I had to laugh at the notion of her thinking I was a full-blown pothead. After assuring her that my inspiration came from our one time hobby, she allowed herself to get excited and forget about the cancer momentarily.

As the year came to an end, things fell into place. My science teacher was so impressed with my lab report that she dropped my lowest test score and counted the experiment grade twice. My parents were proud of the 4.0 this earned me, and I was happy to learn some things about myself. I was so focused on being independent that I pushed out one of the defining features of my life- loyalty. My actions in the face of fear taught me that I am stronger than I know, but a lot of that strength comes from my supportive family. In a sense, the hydroponic garden resembles me. Standing on its own, the garden looks self-sufficient. Delve a little deeper and you see it needs its water changed every two weeks. Another source provides it with oxygen which it can’t produce on its own. The vines are strong, but require a stake to stay standing in the face of wind and weather. Essentially, this experience let me know my own strengths and weaknesses, and reminds me to value every day as they come, because you never know when it could be your last.

Draft 4

One look at my high school transcripts and most would draw the conclusion that I am “science challenged.” My grade point average was habitually lowered by disappointments in the subject, which I usually passed off as teacher’s bias. No matter how interesting I found the material, studying proved to be the last thing on my mind at the end of the day. My parents have never been the type to put value on letter grades as long as I felt I learned something, but even my mother was surprised by my lack of effort in class. High school left me jaded, but everything changed with the last assignment of the year.

Something about science has always made me feel the need to work no harder than is absolutely necessary. Perhaps it is the feeling that you are always repeating someone else’s steps, and originality is hard to come by in a second grade science fair project. A lot of people argue this for mathematics, but I personally felt like I was learning things I would use in real life; for instance, calculating tax on my groceries before reaching the checkout, or finding the correct ratio for chlorine in my pool. Would I ever debate on where to put my potted plants: window versus closet? I doubt it. Biology made little sense to me, as I always felt how we were made held less importance than why we were put here and what we could do, and Chemistry really just confused me. With college applications around the corner, I knew I needed to put my preferences behind me and face the upcoming year with as much optimism as I could muster.

Junior year means one thing at James S. Rickards High School: students must make the pseudo-decision between Higher Level Chemistry and Standard Level Environmental Systems. I say fake choice because everyone knows the science-inclined kids are heavily persuaded to take Chemistry and the future English majors of America are herded towards “Enviro,” and there’s no debating it with the counselors. Let’s just say I didn’t feel the need to argue. I’d heard assignments in Enviro were something akin to “Keep this fish alive for the entire semester” and “Dig a hole to see if the soil changes with depth.” As with all things that interest a teenager, the government felt that restrictions should be put on anything involving chemical reactions, cross-breeding a plant species, studies of toxic lakes, and other dangerous and fun-sounding activities. I’m sure this was running through my teacher’s head as she printed out an assignment stating, “Grow a plant in two different, controlled environments and make hypotheses about growth and germination rates,” assuming everyone would alter a simple factor such as sunlight or amount of water. While I was still determined to keep the promise I’d made myself, my muse appeared to have taken a vacation.

The week before my project topic was due (I’d chosen to alter the salinity of the water I’d administer to the plants), we found out that my mom had cancer. Over the next few days I found myself replaying memories in my head, and then trying to imagine them without her. At age six, I play in the backyard as Mama weeds her garden. At age eight, I tell my mom I want to buy the red and white striped petunias that look like peppermints. Wanting to be like my mother at age ten, I start drinking tea, and we decide to grow fresh mint on the front porch. Before I turn 13 we take a school trip to Disney’s Epcot and become fascinated with the hydroponic gardens exhibit. After that I hit the awkward middle school phase pretty hard and decide that the edgy punk kids could be my best friends, and maybe my mother shouldn’t be. By high school I’d mellowed out and stopped wearing eyeliner, but there were distinct undertones of depression that I couldn’t shake off.

I thought about what was missing from my life and decided it might be maternal love and influence. I couldn’t for the life of me remember why I’d suddenly felt the need to be so independent. Why didn’t we garden anymore? Right then and there, I decided to take on the most ambitious project of the class. I would research, build, and conduct my experiment on hydroponic gardens, starting from scratch and knowing nothing, in hopes of reconnecting with my mother. At least that way she could relive some memories with me. Passing this idea by my teacher proved to be a little more difficult than I’d imagined. In the end, I rationalized that the only materials I’d come in contact with would be vermiculite, water, plant seeds (same as everyone else), an aquarium pump and a Rubbermaid container-- the last two being slightly out of the ordinary but completely harmless, to which she couldn’t disagree. I threw myself into building the system so I wouldn’t worry so much about my mom. I kept it a secret at first, thinking that it could be a surprise to cheer her up. I was a little disappointed by her initial reaction.

Exhausted from hauling gallons of water back and forth to fill up my garden, I gestured to my mom to come outside and take a look. Silence. “Did you come up with this for your project so you could use it to grow pot afterwards? I’ve seen them in those rap videos.” I knew she’d been worried about my reclusive behavior for some time now, but I had to laugh at the notion of her thinking I was a full-blown pothead. After assuring her that my motivations were not illicit, she allowed herself to get excited and forget about the cancer momentarily.

Weeks passed and I tended to my plants like they were my own children, covering them with blankets when the weather dipped below freezing and monitoring their progress each afternoon. The day of my mom’s surgery I took off from school and typed my lab report in the hospital waiting room. After emailing it to my teacher, I focused on spending time with my mom and helping her heal. While I’m usually happy to throw out the potted plants after the prescribed time period, we decided to keep cultivating my hydroponic Alaskan Peas, which flourished and found their way into our salads and side dishes. A few months later my mom was allowed to return to work, and I was somewhat afraid that our times together would become less frequent. Luckily, she felt the same way and we worked out a schedule to set aside time for one another and our garden. I guess we just couldn’t let it die.

As the year came to an end, things fell into place. My science teacher was so impressed with my lab report that she dropped my lowest test score and counted the experiment grade twice. My parents were proud of the 4.0 this earned me, and I was happy to learn some things about myself. I was so focused on being independent that I pushed out one of the defining features of my life: loyalty. My actions in the face of fear taught me that I am stronger than I know, but a lot of that strength comes from my supportive family. In a sense, the hydroponic garden resembles me. Standing on its own, the garden looks self-sufficient. Delve a little deeper and you see it needs its water changed every two weeks. Another source provides it with oxygen which it can’t produce on its own. The vines are strong, but require a stake to stay standing in the face of wind and weather. Essentially, this experience let me know my own strengths and weaknesses, and reminds me to value every day as it comes, because you never know when it could be your last.

Process Memo

A Memo on Writing
As soon as I read the prompt for this paper, I knew my experience with high school would come into play. My personal struggle with the overall system had just come to an end and the wounds of being labeled “drop-out” were still fresh in my mind. I feared that cynicism would harm the narrative’s value, and struggled to pick a topic with enough positive energy to keep the paper in balance. Despite my best efforts, draft one failed in this department. The attempt is drenched with bitterness and disdain, and the sections describing the relationship between my mother and me are weak.

With each new draft came fresh waves of comments through peer workshops and conferences. I gradually realized that my paper had great potential, but I had to get over the apprehension of discussing my mother’s illness to do it justice. Once I started to reach that beautiful equilibrium of serious paper with side dish of contempt, the narrative just flowed out naturally. I’d be lying if I said it was an easy process—there were many hours spent staring at the blinking cursor, wondering if I should simply settle for mediocre. Dealing with such personal subject matter really pushed me to perfect the essay, as I wanted to give an accurate account of that period of my life.

I had worried that writing about high school would in turn place my paper on that level. If anything, the revision process proved to be so cathartic that I no longer feel anger regarding my situation, and have no more qualms about calling myself a college student. The daunting prospect of completing a good personal narrative has haunted me until the end of the final draft. Now that the experience is over, I can confidently state that I am stronger, wiser, and much more willing to create several drafts to get the result I want.